First sunny Sunday of the the year: bike ride.
A few of us met in the cafe on the airfield and had a full English - always a good way to start any enterprise. (It's usually known round here as a Full Welsh Breakfast, but I can't see any difference from the standard variety. But it did the job: I wasn't hungry again until 6 pm.) Our Secretary was there, with her husband, on her Triumph Thruxton 900, and another member who was riding a Bonneville. The one I traded in against the Sprint last summer. Which had originally been owned, before me, by another Club member. It's all a bit incestuous, really. He likes it, though. He has shorter legs than I do, which may account for it.
We sat outside for a long time, drinking coffee and waiting for the mythical 'others' to turn up, but none did, so we decided to make it a short day. Basically, as it was nearly lunchtime by then, we went for a pint. Twenty miles away.
We spent a lot of time in the nadgery little roads between Pembroke and Tenby, along the coast. The views were spectacular, but it wasn't Sprint country at all. I was in first and second gear nearly all the way, and was constantly thinking about the amount of dust and gravel on the little-used roads, and what happened last time I rolled over some gravel on the Big Red One. It was a relief, after we had parted and gone our separate ways home, to get it on some main roads and let it rip, in a cautious and thoroughly legal way, of course. Sports and sports-tourer bikes belong on big roads. It's only at about 60 that the Sprint starts to make sense and get into its stride. Riding it on B-roads is like ploughing a field with a Derby winner - possible, but with a deep sense of wrongness.
I kinda wish I had taken the XT.